


The Tarnished Badge

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: M/M, at least for the first thirty seconds or so, canon-typical police brutality, juno is still a cop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: The HCPD is as brutal as it is corrupt. Everyone knows it-- even Detective Juno Steel, though he always thought he was the exception to the rule.Then he's given an order from on high: to hand over a petty thief to the Kanagawa family, mourning their patriarch and hungry for someone to take it out on.The higher-ups call it justice. The thief calls it a death sentence.Juno calls it a choice.





	1. Juno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-little-red-queen asked:  
> Hi! I Don't know if you're still taking prompts, but have you ever considered an AU where Juno never left the HCPD, and how (if) that would affect him meeting Peter?

“Get up.” 

The thief sits up in his cell, looking at me oddly. “Are you going to stun me again if I don’t, Detective?”

“Don’t try to pick your cuffs again and I won’t have to. Get up. You’re being transferred.”

He stands, graceful despite his handcuffs, and despite the bruising on his face from the uniforms who brought him in. “Dare I ask where to?” 

“You’ll see when you get there.” 

It feels like giving up.

I don’t know the last time that I felt like I was doing real good in the world, but I used to be so sure that I was doing well. That I was the exception to the rule. That all those accusations of slippery slopes and guilt by association didn’t apply to me.

Well. Here we are, and there goes whatever the fuck I’ve been holding on to all this time.

Good fucking riddance.

Because I only ever intended to catch the thief. Because it was that simple, wasn’t it? He stole Grim’s Mask, and he killed Croesus Kanagawa. Theft and murder, right there on the books. And if the Kanagawa family wanted to grease the wheels a little to get the justice they deserved, then what did I care? It was actual justice, whether it benefited them or not.

Only it wasn’t. It isn’t.

See, this guy might have stolen the Mask– who even knows where it is now– but he didn’t murder Kanagawa. I have Cassandra’s confession on record and everything. But her family doesn’t care. They maintain that Cassandra never would have murdered the old man if the thief hadn’t taken the mask. The theft is an insult to their honor and a blow to their ratings, and they want revenge.

It’ll be televised, and it’ll be long and drawn-out enough for plenty of commercial breaks to help the family recoup their losses. 

I’ve done my job: I solved the case, I caught the thief, I filed my paperwork. All I have to do is turn the thief over to the Kanagawas, and I can wash my hands of this whole goddamn thing. I can go back to being the head detective of my precinct. I can go back to my life.

That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?

I don’t even have to turn him over; all I have to do is stand by, and someone else will do it, and then a man will be tortured to death for a crime he didn’t commit on the orders of a crime family. 

Or I could do something about it.

There’s only one way to save this guy, and that’s to let him walk. I can’t do it legally– he did steal the Mask, after all– but I have the key codes. I can get him somewhere safe.

My shiny little reputation won’t be good for shit, not if I’ve thrown away my perfect record to help a common crook, and that means there won’t be a whole lot of people interested in covering for me when the Kanagawas want payback. 

If I save this man, I’m as good as dead.

If I don’t, then what is my life even for?

I’m in charge of the prisoner transport, even though McCrory’s behind the wheel, and he leaves me in silence while he drives. He’s more than used to my brooding moods.

We’re a little more than halfway to Uptown before I sit up out of my stupor. “Pull over.”

McCrory raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

“There’s a little something I want to say to the thief before we turn him over. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”

“Guess even Saint Steel can get his hands dirty once in a while.” The look on McCrory’s face makes my stomach turn, but he backs into an alley, perfectly arranged so the bulk of the transport will block anything incriminating from view. “Take as long as you need, Steel. I ain’t in any hurry.” 

I don’t regret stunning him the second he puts the vehicle in park. I drag him out of the driver’s seat and handcuff him behind a dumpster before any pedestrians can notice that he’s unconscious, and then I empty his pockets of anything useful. 

And then I unlock the back of the van.

The thief is still sitting where I left him, his hands behind his back– only the angle of his elbows is just slightly off, and his expression is one of determined concentration instead of any kind of real fear for his life.

“You can stop pretending,” I tell him. “I know you’ve already picked the cuffs.” 

He shrugs daintily and raises his unbound hands. “It was worth a try, at least. Is this the part where you turn me over?” 

“This is the part where I make you an offer.”

His head tilts to one side. “I’m listening, Detective.” 

“If I turn you over, the Kanagawas are going to kill you. Or I could let you go, right here and right now.” 

“You’re hardly the type to mince words, are you? Alright. What’s the catch?” 

God help me. “If I let you go, you’re taking me with you.” 


	2. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> briwhosaysni asked:  
> So, I already Love the Juno's still a cop au, and I was wondering if we could get a continuation.

When I return to the hotel room, the dear detective is still sulking. At the moment he’s on the foot of his bed, his arms crossed childishly, his chin tucked against his chest. It’s adorable.

“I thought you said you were getting off Mars,” he mutters before I have the chance to take off my coat. 

“I never stay on any planet for long,” I assure him. “I simply need to take care of a few things first.”

“Yeah? And exactly how many is a few?”

“How many indeed?” I laugh, just to watch his eyes rise to meet mine. “What exactly are you tallying, Juno? The passing days? Every time I put on my shoes, my coat, and step out that door? Or do each of the shoes count individually, or as a set? And how many ‘things’ does dinner count for?” I lower my voice. “Speaking of dinner…”

He deflects, of course. “How many more of these jobs are you going to do? If I knew you were going to be setting up shop, I would have–” He trips over the words, and so I help him along.

“You would have what, Juno? Turned me over to the Kanagawas?”

Lacking an answer, he sinks deeper into the bed. 

“This particular job is the last one I intend to pull on Mars,” I say, just to indulge him. “But I can’t guess as to how many individual errands my employer intends to have me run. She herself doesn’t seem to know for sure. In the meantime, she’s paying handsomely for my assistance.” I settle beside him on the bed. “Passage on a spaceship doesn’t come cheap, you know. Nor do our accommodations.” 

“They might if you didn’t book us in a luxury hotel.” 

“Maybe not. But I for one sleep better between silk sheets. Don’t you?” I lean in, and he averts is gaze.  

“Glad one of us is sleeping, anyway.” 

“If you’d like some help on that matter, I’d be delighted to assist you.” I lean closer still, until there’s nowhere for him to look except at me. “Chamomile tea might do the trick. Or warm milk and honey. Or perhaps a massage?” 

Getting him to engage with me is difficult, but that look he gives me is worth the effort. His head is still low, and he peeks at me from underneath the weight of those brows like a child coming out of hiding. He’s so timid when he looks at me like that, so tender and vulnerable and delicate. I’ve seen him topple gangsters twice his size with a single punch, but in moments like these, he seems so fragile he could break if I so much as breathed carelessly.

“I–” His voice is high and cracked before he has the chance to correct it. “I’m fine.” 

I chuckle. “You certainly are.”  

“Would you cut it out?” He rolls off the bed and storms away, putting half a room between us. “Why do you keep doing that?”

My chuckle turns into a full laugh. Why would I stop when he makes it so very fun? “You can hardly blame me for wanting to know more about you.” 

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to be so…” He waves a hand in frustration, indicating all of me. 

I cross my legs daintily. “So what?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

I flash a smile with all my teeth. Of course I do. 

But he goes on: “If this is about earlier, then you need to get over it already. I was just doing my job, do you understand me? You stole the Mask, I caught you. You tried to escape, I stunned you. It was nothing personal. And what happened with Pakoor and McCrory– I had nothing to do with that.”

“I’m well aware.” There’s a reason why I agreed to take him with me, after all. I’m hardly unfamiliar with being arrested, or with constables that are rougher than necessary on their suspects. I’ve long since learned how to take a hit so that it looks more painful than it actually is. It wasn’t even as drawn out as usual; Juno stepped in when he caught the others in the act.

“Then why the hell are you still trying to take it out on me?” he demands.

I tilt my head. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know what else it’s supposed to be.” 

“For now, let’s just call it an invitation to dinner. Tell me, have you ever had Enceladian?”

* * *

Juno is calmer after dinner, though I’m not sure whether to attribute that to the meal or to the long walk to the restaurant. I’m still learning to navigate his moods, but I’m starting to learn the patterns of mounting anxiety and spiraling depression. From what I can gather, he ordinarily channels that feeling into solving cases and catching criminals, but that might be difficult for him now that he’s avoiding the police and the crime families that run the city. He gets nervous enough about leaving the hotel for meals.

But now that he and dinner have both been dealt with, I have to get back to work.

There are almost no records of the Pill anywhere– not in Saffron’s research and development notes, nor in its accounts, and not in its numerous safes. I would know; I’ve checked every last one. After scouring the records with forensic scrutiny, I’ve found a few earmarked fees with no elaboration and a few notes that lack explanation, but they’re all dead ends.

It seems DiMaggio knew a thing or two about corporate espionage.

Ah, well. If I can’t steal the Pill stealthily, there are other ways to find its whereabouts. Surely DiMaggio knows where it is. 

“What are you working on?” Juno says, stepping closer. I feel the instinctive urge to turn off the tablet and cover the papers, but I refrain; I’ve decided to trust Juno, after all. Besides, it isn’t as though I have a plan to spoil.

“How familiar are you with Saffron Pharmaceuticals?” I ask instead. 

Juno makes a face. “Don’t tell me you’re working for DiMaggio.” 

“You know him?”

“His husband was a suspect in a murder investigation a few years back, before they were married. These days, I see more of his handiwork. Or I did.” The afterthought signals yet another detour into self-pity, but I cut it off before it can start.

“Then I take it you won’t have any qualms about assisting with this little matter?”

“Depends on what it is.”

I show him my research so far. “Saffron stumbled across Ancient Marian medicine not too long ago. And because they aren’t willing to part with it legally, my employer wants it the old-fashioned way.”

“Half Saffron’s products are Ancient Martian, if you believe their marketing gimmicks.” 

“And that little fact has been making my job exponentially more difficult. Supposedly this is meant to be the real thing.” 

“You don’t say.” He pulls up a chair beside me, and I hand him the most relevant of the papers. 

When he caught me, I attributed it to a few careless mistakes on my part and a bit of dumb luck. Watching him work is something else altogether. He’s got a quick wit, a knack for getting into other people’s heads, and a love for these kinds of riddles. His words come faster as we work through a plan together. His eyes light up. He throws in a few obscure details, just to impress me– and I am impressed. The two of us are swept away in the planning, and we only stop at dawn, when the sounds of morning traffic reminds us that we haven’t slept. 

Blackout curtains blot out the rising sun, but we’re still making slurred plans as we crawl into bed, most of which will be forgotten by the time we wake up. We’re so caught up in enthusiasm and exhaustion that neither of us notice that we’re sleeping in the same bed.


	3. Juno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I NEeD MoRe of the JunO's STilL a CoP aU

By the time I wake up, it’s well after noon, judging by the angle of the light that manages to sneak through the blackout curtains. God, I don’t even know when I fell asleep– six, maybe? Seven? I haven’t slept this late since night shifts as a beat cop. 

I must have needed it, though, because I slept like a rock. I can’t remember the last time I’ve woken up feeling rested like this. All that planning must have worn me out or something–

Or, judging by the evidence, maybe it was because I wasn’t sleeping alone.

The thief murmurs something incoherent into my ear, and I should be listening for some kind of clue about who he really is or what he really wants, but right now all I can register is the sensation of it. His breath is hot against my cheek. His long, lean arms are wrapped around my chest, and he’s got one leg hitched over my waist. 

And it would be a really nice way to wake up, except he’s a goddamn  _criminal_. He’s a thief, and I catch thieves, and this is all kinds of wrong– except I’m a criminal now, too, because apparently it’s a crime these days not to stand by and let an innocent-ish man die. Fuck, I even helped him plan a heist last night. I offered to help him pull it off. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I really that much of an idiot that I can just be suckered in by a pair of big bright eyes and legs that go on forever and that mouth that–

That mouth that has suddenly gone from mumbling in his sleep to nipping at my earlobe. And it feels–  _God_ , it feels good– but it’s every kind of wrong and I need to get out of here  _yesterday_. 

I roll out of his grip and out of his bed and land on the floor with a crash. If the thief wasn’t awake before, he damn well is now.

He sits up abruptly, looking around like he’s expecting to be attacked– which, all things considered, has probably happened to him a few times before. But he’s alone; there’s nobody here but me. 

“Juno?” he asks, caught in that weird halfway point between groggy and hyper alert that only comes when you’ve been woken by sudden violence. “Are you alright? What happened?” 

“What do you mean, what happened?” I snap. “You bit me! I thought a– a scorpion got in here or something.” 

“Did I?” He yawns, and I get a nice view of sharp teeth that should  _really_ not make me feel the way I do. “Apologies.” 

“What are you doing in– in–” Goddammit, that’s  _his_ bed, isn’t it? Jesus, I must have been exhausted last night– or this morning–  _whatever_. I let out a frustrated growl and yank myself to my feet, making a beeline for the bathroom. “I’m taking a goddamn shower.” 

“Have fun,” he says lightly, and I just growl even louder. He knows, doesn’t he? Of course he knows.

A cold shower freezes away the worst of the distractions and lets me think rationally again. 

I need him to get me off Mars in one piece, because he can forge credentials well enough to make fucking  _Dark Matters_  vouch for him without a second thought, and because he’s got the force of personality to walk through a dozen security checkpoints without setting them off. But he can’t do any of that if he gets himself caught finishing up this job– and after the stunt I pulled letting him go, the police are going to be out for blood. I need to help him. Right now, my life depends on it. And that means I can’t afford to get hung up on little things like… like violations of personal space. 

I’m already shivering. If I spend any more time in this shower, the thief will have to dig me out with an ice pick, and– nope, I’m not letting that thought go any further than it has already. I shut off the water and take a few more minutes to drip dry as I watch it swirling down the drain. It could be a pretty good metaphor for other things, but that’s another thought that won’t be getting free license to wander around my head. 

I’m so busy not thinking about things that I don’t notice my lack of clean clothes until I’ve toweled myself off. I could put on last night’s clothes, but they got too close to the crack between the wall and the shower curtain; right now they’re soaked through and freezing cold.

I could just call for the thief to hand me something out of my bag, but I don’t want him rooting around in there. There are things I’d rather not let him get his hands on. 

I swear at the mirror a few more times, wrap myself in a towel, and march out the bathroom door. I just have to keep telling myself that this is fine. There’s nothing weird about it. Nothing at all. It’s not awkward if I don’t make it awkward.

I don’t look at the thief, but I can feel his eyes following me as I cross the room and start digging through my bag. 

“You know,” he says, and I brace for the worst. “Your handwriting is surprisingly legible.” 

I look up. “What?” 

“The notes you jotted down last night. My own tends to go downhill rather quickly when I get tired.” The sound of rustling paper draws my attention to him. He’s sitting on top of his bed– masterfully made, I notice, but he hasn’t done anything about that bedhead– with a handful of papers on his lap. One of them is turned around so I can see lines of wandering, sprawling handwriting. One of the sets is mine, and if it isn’t exactly neat, it’s at least clear enough to be readable. The other is a series of squiggles that can barely be differentiated into letters. 

I shrug, throwing a clean shirt over my shoulder. “I’ve had a lot of practice filling out paperwork while sleep deprived. The guys in charge of filing get pissy if they can’t read your writing.” 

“It sounds like you speak from experience.” 

“Apparently an all-night stakeout is no excuse for lousy penmanship.” 

He grins, and I find myself smiling, too. It shouldn’t be so easy to smile around him, and so I turn around and hide my face under the pretense of grabbing the rest of my clothes. 

“Speaking of long nights,” he says, “did you mean what you were saying last night? About joining me on the heist?” 

My stomach settles between my knees.

“It was a late night, after all,” he adds. 

His tone is light and casual, but it doesn’t feel that way. He’s giving me an out. I don’t have to be involved any more than I already am. I can keep my criminal record down to one count of helping him escape custody– still a damning offense, but defensible before a fair jury. Robbing a pharmaceutical company won’t be taken so lightly.

I don’t have to be a part of this.

“The plan doesn’t exactly work without me, does it?” I ask.

“I can always come up with another.”

No, he can’t. He’s been throwing himself against a wall for days now without any real progress. He needs me, but he’s letting me walk away.

I shrug. “No point coming up with another plan when the one we’ve got works just fine.” 

His face breaks into a smile, and he looks so genuinely happy that I’m a little bit overwhelmed.  

“In that case,” he says. “I think there are still a few more details to work out. Shall we get to it?”

“Yeah, sure. Just let me put some clothes on first.” 

I don’t want to admit it, but there are very few things I wouldn’t do to make him look at me like that again. 


	4. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a whole lot of requests to continue this one.

I can’t help a sense of unease as we approach the DiMaggio mansion, but I swallow it down. A bit of discomfort isn’t worth calling off a job, after all, and this is hardly the first floating mansion I’ve broken into since New Kinshasa. Besides, it seems we’ll be out of here in short order.

Juno knocks at the door with an expression of intense focus. It’s a good look on him, all professional and intent. 

When the valet opens the door, he’s already got his badge out. “Detective Steel,” he says, and jerks his head at me. “My partner, Detective Markovik.”

I flash my own badge, stolen from the apartment of the real Detective Lazar Markovik less than an hour ago. According to Juno, Tuesday afternoons are when he’s busy at the Triad card tables; it should be a few hours before he realizes his badge is gone, which means that it won’t register as missing when the valet runs my credentials. Juno’s credentials aren’t quite so clean, but before he can hand over his badge, a voice echoes through the voluminous front hall.

“That won’t be necessary, Jeremy.” A remarkably beautiful man stands at the top of a flight of stairs, draped over the banister like a renaissance painting. He’s almost waifish in his build, but soft-skinned and bright-eyed, and he carries himself with an ostentatious glamour that very few can pull off. I respect that. “Or did you think I wouldn’t remember you, Detective Steel?” 

As a matter of fact, we’re counting on it. 

‘Good cop/bad cop’ is a law enforcement tradition that spans the galaxy, but in Hyperion City, it’s no game. When Julian DiMaggio was suspected of murder, Juno was one of the few good cops left in his precinct. 

“Julian,” Juno said, nodding at him. “Or I guess it’s Mr. DiMaggio now?”

“Oh, please, call me Julian. Really, it’s the least I could do after you saved me. And now you’re back to do it again. We really must stop meeting like this.”

Juno clears his throat. “Julian, maybe we could have this conversation somewhere more private.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” He sweeps down the steps like it’s his own personal gala instead of a faux police investigation. “This way, detectives. Jeremy, if you’d be a dear?”

He leads us into a study large enough to be a ballroom, and the valet shuts the door behind us. 

“Please, sit,” he says. I’ve seen the posters and commercials; I assumed that the drama behind the Prince of Mars was an elaborate bit of showmanship, but it seems there aren’t many hidden layers. He really  _is_ that loud. “Can I get you two a drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Sorry, Julian, but we’re on duty.” 

“Of course, of course.” He leans forward. “Oh, I must know. What is this really about, Detective?” 

Maybe it has something to do with the lingering discomfort from being this high in the air, but I’m irritated by the look he gives Juno. My partner in crime, for his part, makes no sign that he notices the attention.

“This morning we got some leads about a planned robbery of one of Saffron’s facilities. Something in the R&D department.” 

“Really?” he giggles. “Oh, but that’s adorable. I can assure you, our security is state of the art.” 

“Are you certain?” I ask.

“Utterly. I hope you understand, Detective. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the rest of the department has a rather… unsavory reputation.”

“I know,” Juno says. “That’s why we’re working off the books. We already ran into some trouble when we started this investigation. Looks like this is part of a bigger picture, Julian, and there are a few uniforms who don’t want it solved.” He lowers his voice. “That’s why we need you.”

“Me?” DiMaggio gasps. 

“If we find out what they’re after, it may help us uncover their greater plan,” I say, my voice hushed nearly to a whisper. 

DiMaggio is an excitable man, and it isn’t difficult for him to get swept up in the drama of it all. We tell him what little information Miasma gave me about the Pill I’m meant to steal, add it to stories of the Mask, the Key she procured before she hired me, and a few other odds and ends that Miasma’s been collecting. Before long, DiMaggio is chiming in with guesses and suggestions of his own, and Juno and I lead him into planning an ambush against the thieves. By the time we return to our car, we have all the information we need, in addition to recordings of our little meeting for the voice authentication in the building.

“He seems quite taken with you,” I muse as I begin the drive back to our apartment.

“Nah, he’s just loud like that.”

“Oh? He barely said a word when I was speaking to him.” I adjust the altitude controls to take us back to ground level. It seems you’re the one he wanted to impress. You did  _save him_ , after all.” 

I flit a glance in Juno’s direction long enough to catch his raised eyebrow. “He’s a married man.”

“That fact stops fewer people than you would think.”

“Then maybe it helps that I’m not interested.”

“No?”

“He’s not exactly my type.” 

We’re in a stretch of clear air, so I take the chance to lean closer to him. “And what type would that be?”

He swallows and his mouth opens involuntarily. I could put this car on autopilot for a few moments…

“What’s it to you?” Juno asks.

I flash a smile. “Nothing at all, Detective. Simply curious.” 

* * *

I leave Juno at the hotel while I slip into the basement of Saffron’s headquarters. Not for secrecy’s sake– at this point, I’ve broken into the building so many times that I know where all the cameras are by heart– but because I don’t want to explain to Juno  _why_ I know it so well. I take pride in my competence; I don’t want him to know that I’d done this so very often and never bothered to check the basement.

It isn’t my fault, after all– how was I to know that an entire department had been left off the building’s blueprints?

With DiMaggio’s instructions, reaching the proper room is simple enough. Finding the Pill itself, though, is slightly more difficult. The entire wall is covered in lockboxes, and I have to pick almost half of them before I find what I’m looking for. It takes hours, and an aggravating amount of that time is spent hiding when the guards make their rounds. 

By the time I find the Pill and its associated documentation, the sky is gray-pink with the first light of dawn.

I send a message to Miasma and make my way back to the hotel. 

Fortunately, Juno is a late sleeper; with any luck, I’ll be able to slip into the room without waking him.

That plan dies, though, when I open the door. 

Juno’s sitting on his bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. When he turns to look at me, his eyes are bloodshot and lined with dark bags. 

I close the door quietly behind me. “I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”

He shrugs. “Just a bit of insomnia.” 

I might be more inclined to believe that if he’d gotten under the covers. Or bothered taking his shoes off. 

He notices the glance, and slides them off, dropping them unceremoniously at the foot of his bed. “If you ran into trouble, you should have called me.”

“Don’t tell me I had you worried over me.” I won’t pretend I’m not charmed by the notion.

“Of course not,” he grumbles. “You’re my ticket out of here, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I slip off my coat and hang it up on one of the thick metal hangers that can handle its weight.  “Have you done much thinking about where you’ll go after we leave Mars?” 

“There are a few planets I’ve got my eye on.” 

“Any place I’ve been?” I sit on the edge of his bed. “I might be able to show you around. Perhaps get you started on… whatever it is you’re planning to do there.”

“Something in the Tau Ceti system, maybe,” Juno says. 

“Orcinus is lovely,” I yawn. It seems the night took more out of me than I thought. “Every city has a holiday commemorating its foundation. There are people who spend their whole lives traveling from fair to fair.”

“Sounds like a lot of opportunities for crime,” Juno says.

“What do you think attracted me to it in the first place?” I grin. “But I imagine it would have plenty of room for a seasoned detective. Unless you’re planning to change careers?” The last word is half-swallowed in another yawn. 

Juno rolls his eyes at me. “Oh, for the love of– lay down if you’re tired.”

“If you insist.” I know he means on the other bed, I sink into the mattress, just to annoy him. That might have been a mistake, though. I really am exhausted, and the bed is so very soft.

“You asshole,” he mutters, but he pulls back the covers. “At least take off your shoes first.”

“Anything for the lady.” I sit up to untie the laces– these shoes are far too nice to scuff up so casually– and stretch out on the proffered side of the bed. 

Juno throws the blanket over me, then crawls under the covers beside me. “And no biting this time,” he mutters.

I hum. “Not unless you ask nicely.” 


	5. Juno

There’s really no point in trying to keep up a decent sleep schedule, is there?

I don’t have a job to wake up for, and in a few days I’ll leave Mars behind for some foreign planet circling around some distant star.

I’ll probably be depressed about it later. But right now, everything is calm. The familiar afternoon sun is streaming through the blinds and pooling on the back of my head. Another body is pressed against mine, warming me from the front. My knee is hitched over his hip, my arm around his waist. Sleek straight hair is pressed against my face until all I can smell is otherworldly cologne and the elegant product the thief uses in his hair. 

I inhale deeply and prop myself up on one elbow, just to watch him sleep. He’s snoring a little bit, and his lips are parted in something almost like a smile. 

Lying this close to him, it doesn’t feel like my world is falling apart. It feels like some grand adventure. And it doesn’t have to end when we reach Orcinus or whatever distant planet he thinks I’ll end up on. We can keep going forever, racing from system to system, outsmarting the Kanagawas and the DiMaggios of the galaxy and outrunning the ones we can’t. 

I sigh. How is it that he’s the one asleep but I’m the one dreaming? 

I must have disturbed him, because he makes a soft mumbling sound and rolls closer to me. “Juno?”

“Hey.” I should probably get up and give him his space. “Late night?”

“Mm-hmm…” He must still be half asleep, because he slides closer, nuzzling against my chest. And maybe it’s just the sun on my back or the man beside me, but I feel so warm right now. I wouldn’t mind waking up like this every morning for the rest of my life. I want to–

No. That’s not going to happen. 

He’ll take me as far as he promised, maybe not even that far, and then he’ll be on his way. I’ll never see him again.

Something hardens in the pit of my stomach. 

Fuck it. There’s no use moralizing anymore– I’m already a criminal. If this is all I get, then I’ll take what I can. Binge on bad decisions now and live off the memories later. 

I lean in and kiss him the way I want to: gently, like we have the rest of forever together. 

Yeah, pretty sure that woke him up. He’s heavy and soft against me, all searching lips and sliding hands. He must have rolled at some point, because suddenly I’m aware that he’s on top of me, my leg still hitched over his waist.

His kisses wash over my collarbone, and I feel the barest graze of sharp teeth.

* * *

I’ve done more than my share of sting operations with the HCPD. Turns out growing up in Oldtown gave me the kind of look you just can’t fake. When I went undercover, nobody ever caught on that the surly dame was wearing a wire, let alone that I was a cop. 

Those kind of operations got rough, most of the time. There was a lot of intimidation, seduction, flattery. There were criminals out there who could take one look at you and find the right words to cut right through you.

But it didn’t get to me like it did everywhere else. I never got anything I didn’t sign on for, and so I could shake off what they threw at me without a problem. Even their head games didn’t get their hooks into me, because I could always look ahead to the extraction team waiting to sweep me off to safety. 

There’s no extraction team this time, but this? This is just as temporary, just an elaborate charade while we pass the time. Nothing he says or does can hurt me while we’re caught up in this fantasy. Nothing I do can hurt him.

So I indulge. I drink in all that sweet, saccharine domestic bullshit that seems so incredible when you’re on the outside looking in. And the way he sells it, I almost get off thinking it’s real. Not just the dinners or the sex or the part where I wake up beside him, but the little things– the touches, the conversations about nothing, the way he scratches my scalp while he searches for his next lead like he’s not even thinking about it and just likes touching me. I spend a lot of our time together quiet, trying to commit these moments to memory, to bottle the feeling so I can ration it out when it’s gone for good.

* * *

We lounge on the hotel couch together, digging through newspapers and tabloids and the latest feeds looking for signs of more Martian artifacts. He’s practically in my lap, holding his comms in one hand and absently tracing patterns on my skin with the other. 

It’s distracting as hell, but I’m not about to tell him to quit touching me. Besides, I think I’ve got something. I’m about to announce a set of funerary urns in a local museum of antiquities, but I’m cut off by a flashing light from his comms.

“One moment,” he says, and extracts himself from my lap with more elegance than should be humanly possible. He takes the call in the privacy of the balcony, his face turned away, but I can see the shift in his stance. All the languid curves go taut, and suddenly he’s all crisp lines and hard edges. It only lasts for a few minutes, then the call ends and he melts into softness and angel smiles.

They’re both personas, I know that much– one for his employer and one for me. I can’t help wondering which one is closer to the real him.

“Let me guess,” I ask when he steps back into the room. “Your mysterious benefactor?” 

“It seems she wants the Martian Key for her collection after all,” he hums. “I believe that means you owe me breakfast?”

Breakfast and a blowjob, according to our little bet. He’ll owe me the same if she orders the funerary urns, but there’s a good chance that’ll never happen. I don’t know if he’s just got a better eye for Ancient Martian artifacts, or if he already knows what’s on his boss’s shopping list, but he hasn’t been wrong yet. Three for three so far, he’s always won. 

And honestly? I like the idea that he’s cheating. Because that means he has other options, but he wants what I’m offering. I don’t know if the part he’s after is my cooking or my mouth around him, and I don’t really care. He wants me. In all this big elaborate charade, that much at least is real. 

But then, maybe that’s just another part of the fantasy.

* * *

It’s the kind of life I wouldn’t dare dream about. More and more, I find myself thinking that I could get used to this– that I wouldn’t mind going on this way forever.

It’s still nothing but a dream.

And then all at once, I wake up.

* * *

He’s back out on the balcony, his shoulders tense and his back straight, the way it always is when he’s on a call with his employer.

Except he isn’t.

The comms is held at his side, his knuckles white around its screen. His shoulders are rising and falling with every heavy breath. He’s staring out at Hyperion City below, like he’s looking for something he doesn’t expect to find. 

I’m out of the couch and on my way to him when he turns around and steps back inside. 

“Well. That took longer than expected.” The smile on his face is disarming– that by itself is reason to be on alert.

“Did something happen?” 

“Not at all,” he says, like I haven’t heard him lie a thousand times already. “It seems we’ve reached our last assignment sooner than I expected.” 

“Yeah?” I try not to let him see the dread pooling in my stomach. “So which one of us gets breakfast tomorrow?”

“Neither, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright. We’ll split it. How about I cook and you blow me?” I touch him on the shoulder. It’s a stupid move– I almost never touch him first. The fact that I did just now only let him know I sense the tension.

“That sounds lovely, Juno.” There’s something very wrong with his smile as he wraps his arms around my neck. “I should ask, do you still have your heart set on Orcinus, or was there someplace else you wanted to go?” 

I want to ask what’s going on, but I don’t have the right words. The only ones I can scrounge together are, “How about we figure that out after we finish the job?”

“Why wait?” He’s closer now, his lips grazing the edge of my jaw with every word. “Now that I don’t have to arrange my schedule around these calls, I can leave Mars any time I like. You could be on a spaceship to the Tau Ceti system by this time tomorrow.”

“You don’t really think I’m gonna let you finish it without me?”

“Much as I appreciate that, Juno, it won’t be necessary. I expect it will be tedious, but I’m sure I can handle it on my own.” His knees bend, and he slides down my chest. “I’d much rather get you situated.” 

I want to push him off me and demand he give me a straight answer, but I can’t. 

I always knew this was going to end. I’m not stupid. But I  _am_ selfish enough to cling to every good moment I have left before I lose him for good. 

“Just…” It’s getting hard to think. He’s already working at my belt. “Just tell me one thing. What’s this last job going to be, anyway?”

“Nothing important,” he hums. “Just an obscure little curio, really.” His long fingers are sliding down my thighs. If I had an ounce less self control, I wouldn’t have caught the next words out of his mouth. “It’s called the Egg of Purus.”


	6. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted both by BriWhoSaysNi and TheFlatwoodsMonsterIsALesbian, who have been incredibly patient with me.
> 
> It took ages upon ages for me to figure out how to work this chapter. I hope it's worth the wait.

I used to think of myself as a gentleman thief; now I’m starting to doubt I’m either.

A gentleman would walk Juno to the terminal, leave him with a fond farewell and something to remember me by. A thief would have the sense of self-preservation to get on that spaceship with him. 

Instead, I leave Juno on the steps of the spaceport and drive away without a second glance. I can’t look back. I don’t dare. If I do, my resolve will break and I’ll sweep Juno off his feet and into the stars.

The need to turn back leaves an ache in my chest. I want to do it. I could do it. It would be so very easy.

All it means is leaving Miasma to take the Egg of Purus for herself. I’ve met the woman; I’ve seen how she interacts with the world around her. With a weapon like that in her hands, all of Mars is at risk– perhaps all of the Solar system. If I leave now, I leave millions upon millions of lives in her hands.

_I_  wouldn’t be affected, of course. I would get Juno and myself far out of harm’s way. He would have no way of knowing that I had prior knowledge of the tragedy, and even if he found out, he would tell me that there’s nothing I could have done.

Not because it’s true, of course, but because I can tell any story to paint myself in the best light. 

But I’ll know.

And so I stay. I can’t be certain if I’ll succeed, but I have to try. I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t try.

It’s going to be difficult– it would be so much easier if I had a partner, but I had no allies on Mars except for Juno, and I won’t put him in this kind of danger. Better for him to be safe and happy somewhere far away from here. If I survive this, then I’ll find him again. I can take him on a whirlwind tour of the festivals of Orcinus, and we can be the saviors or the scourges of the Tau Ceti system, depending on how we feel. We can do all the things we planned. And if I don’t…

If I don’t, then I’ll know I made the right decision to leave him behind.

* * *

 

I drive through the martian desert until I hear a signal from the metal detector strapped to the outside of my car. 

It’s a fairly long drive from Hyperion City to the Oasis Casino, at least by local standards, and most of it is through empty wasteland. When the metal detector strapped to my car goes off, I know there’s not much chance of it being anything but the track of the Utgard Express. A bit of digging at the source of the signal proves me right, and I bury a remote signal disruptor along the track. With the push of a button, I can bring the whole thing to a halt, if only for a few seconds. It’s not long enough for me to board the train, especially if it’s somewhere on the other side of the planet at the time, and it certainly won’t go unnoticed, but it might give me the chance to get off.

Boarding the train remains a puzzle; fortunately, I know a man who’s solved it.

* * *

 

Brock Engstrom may be a second-rate pickpocket, but he’s been in this game too long to write anything down, especially not something as valuable as the way onto the Utgard Express. 

I would know; I’ve already searched his suite.

“How do I get onto the Utgard Express?”

“What is your name?” 

“Pass.”

I’m desperate enough to consider less wholesome methods of getting my information out of him, but that won’t be worth much; if he lies, there’ll be no way for me to know until it’s too late, and I won’t have a chance to question him a second time. 

“What is your name?” 

“How do I get onto the Utgard Express?”

“Pass.”

My best bet is to win the information from him in a game of skill. Not the card game, of course– with the way he’s cheating, I don’t stand a chance at another winning hand for the rest of the evening– but by catching him in a lie and forcing his hand that way. But even if I’m not playing to win, it takes all my faculties just to keep up with the game; every time my eyes rise from the cards, Engstrom speeds the pace. Whatever he’s doing is lost on me.

“How do I get onto the Utgard Express?”

“What is your name?”

“Pass.”

I’m going to lose.

If I explain my situation, he’ll flee Mars without giving me the information I need. If I threaten him, his bodyguard will kill me. If I drug him, she’ll kill me. If I go after her first– well, that’s another game entirely, and not one I’m any more equipped to win.

“What is your name?” 

“How do I get onto the Utgard Express?”

“Pass.”

His thin lips peeled back from his teeth, almost skull-like. “That’s enough, Rose. I was under the impression that you had either the courage to play or the decency to admit your cowardice. I was wrong on both counts.”

I know without seeing it that my smile is unconvincing. “Come now. Don’t tell me you’ve given up that easily.”

“I’m only giving up on this colossal waste of time,” he growls. “I will give you one final chance, Rose. One last hand. After that, I’m afraid I have other obligations to which I must attend.”

Behind him, the door opens, revealing a nervous bellhop with a keycard. The bodyguard looks up, but Engstrom’s eyes are on me.

“How do I get onto the Utgard Express?” I ask.

His counter carries all the weight of a guillotine. “What is your name?” 

There’s nothing for it. I take a breath. 

“ _There_ you are, Rose!” My thoughts derail as Juno Steel strides into the room with all the swagger of a dirty cop about to make a clean getaway. “I hope you’ve been keeping this old asshole entertained.”

Across the table, Engstrom rises from his chair. “Who is this buffoon and how did he get in here? Valencia–”

“Whoops, almost forgot to introduce myself.” Juno flashes a grin. “Detective Juno Steel. I’m with the Hyperion City Police.” 

Engstrom’s eyes harden. “You think you can just march in here like you own the place? You termites may have the run of that lousy hellhole, but we’re in the Oasis. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Jurisdiction?” Juno snorts. “What, do you think I’m here to arrest you or something? No, I’m here to make you an offer.” He flashes a deadly smile. “Mayor Pereyra sends their regards.” 

The ire drains from Engstrom’s face. “Pereyra? What do they have to do with this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask. I don’t know exactly what Juno’s doing, but he’s given me enough openings to back him up. “They’re the reason we’re here.”

“March twenty-ninth, was it… eight years ago?” Juno grabs a chair and flips it around, throwing his arms over the back. “That awkward little hit-and-run, do you remember it? Left four people hospitalized. Could’ve gotten you in some real trouble, especially with the kind of stuff they found in your trunk. It was awfully generous of the mayor to make all that go away. They did you a real favor. And now they’ve sent us to collect.”

“You can’t be serious,” Engstrom sputters, rising from his chair. “That was settled years ago–”

Juno answers in something just short of a singsong. “That’s not how Pereyra tells it.” With an easygoing shrug, he pulls out his comms. “But hey, if you’re not interested, I’m sure they’ll understand.” He taps in a few numbers into the keypad, then pauses thoughtfully. “By the way, about that parking ticket last June…” 

I have no idea what that means, but I recognize a threat when I hear one. I also recognize that Juno is unfairly attractive when he’s in the midst of a con. 

Engstrom’s hands are wrapped around the edges of the table, so tight his knuckles are white. He looks a few misplaced words away from flipping it over on us, cards and all. “What… the  _hell_ … does Pilot want?” 

Juno signals me with a flick of his eyes, and I answer for him. “Isn’t it obvious?They want to make a withdrawal from the Utgard Express. We need your information to make that happen.”

“If that pastel-wearing politician thinks I’m going to give up the score of a lifetime–”

“Give it up?” I titter, as if the notion is hilarious. There’s only so far we can push Engstrom before he decides he would rather die with the secret. “We aren’t here to take the score from you, Engstrom. We’re here to invite you to join us. The mayor has their eye on a very particular prize; the rest is yours for the taking.” 

* * *

 

My mind is awhirl as I guide Juno back to my hotel room, but I push the warring emotions under the surface. Even when we’re in the relative safety of the room, I hold on to that calm facade. 

“I won’t pretend I’m not surprised,” I say, hanging up the suit jacket of my latest disguise. “I thought you would be halfway out of system by now.”

Juno’s confident swagger falls away, leaving behind a surly glare. “I changed my mind.”

“If you were going to miss me so much, you should have said something.” 

“You mean like you should have said something about your score?” The accusation in his tone stings, but I flash a weak smile.  

“I did, as a matter of fact.” 

It’s a shadow of our early time together, when he was all crossed arms and hunched shoulders and I spent half my time trying to defuse his suspicion.

What happened to the rest of it? The comfortable chatter over research, the closeness of a shared bed? Or did I leave that behind when I left him at the spaceport? 

It’s a scene I don’t have the energy to play. The card game was exhausting in its own right, but I haven’t slept since I last saw Juno, and I’ve spent most of that time contemplating my own mortality. 

“You were talking about the Egg of Purus like it was goddamn Faberge. You never mentioned it was a bomb. Jesus, it wiped out an entire goddamn species. Do you have any idea what could happen if the wrong person got their hands on that thing?”

His fury scrapes over my raw nerves. “Do you think I don’t know that?” I hiss. “My employer is deranged, Juno. I can’t let her get her hands on this.”

“Then why the hell are you trying to steal it? It’s in the galaxy’s most secure vault. Why not just leave it there and walk away?”

“Because you don’t know her like I do. She’ll stop at nothing until she gets what she wants. If I don’t steal it for her, it’s only a matter of time before she finds someone else. The only way to keep it out of her hands is to find it first and destroy it.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me that?” Juno demands. “Dammit, I could have helped you. We could have worked on something together, instead of– what even was that back there? Was letting him cream you part of your big strategy?”

“No. It wasn’t.” I don’t need any more reminders of my failures. I don’t need any more reminders of how much I need him. “I appreciate your help, Juno, but you should get back to the spaceport. I can handle myself from here.”

“Engstrom is going to expect me to come with you on that train.”

“He knows we’re working together. I’m sure he won’t find it suspicious.”

“And if he brings that lady with the cigarette, then they’ll have you outnumbered. If you think for a second that they’re going to just let you walk away with the Egg–”

“I can handle it.” My voice is strained. What I can’t handle is any more of this conversation.

He takes a step toward me. “You probably can, but you’re not going to. I’m part of this. I want to see it through.”

He’s too close. Too close to the job, too close to Miasma. Standing here in this hotel room, inches away, he’s too close to me. 

If he doesn’t get out now, I might never let him go. 

“You don’t understand what you’re getting into.” It’s such a feeble resistance. “You don’t know this woman like I do. She’s dangerous. She’ll kill you if she gets half the chance.”

“All the more reason for me to stick around.”

“Juno, please, just go.” I’m begging now, and I don’t even have the energy to care. “I promised I would get you off Mars safely, and–”

“No,” Juno says. “You promised you would take me with you. And I’m going to hold you to it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> briwhosaysni asked:
> 
> Remember that series you did where Juno and Peter met when Juno was still a cop? I would love if you did another installment in that. There's just so many ways it could go from where it left off.

It’s been a little more than a day since he left me at that spaceport, but the thief holds onto me like he hasn’t seen me in years. And sure, maybe that’s got something to do with a species-ending bomb and a deranged anthropologist, but I’ll take what I can get.  

“What made  you change your mind?

He looks about as tired as I feel, but he’s got my head on his shoulder and his hands carding through my hair.  A lady could get used to being handled like that.

“I looked up the Egg in the research. I was going to ask about it on the ship, but then you didn’t come with me.” And yeah, that was probably the whole point of letting me think he was coming– so I couldn’t ask awkward questions. 

His fingers pause on my scalp. “I never printed out any information on the Egg. It was all on my comms. How could you–”

 I sit up enough to prop myself up on my elbow and look him in the eyes. “Listen, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m not the kind of guy who goes looking through people’s comms, I swear. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that when somebody changes all their plans right after one phone call, it’s just a matter of time before someone finds a body. I wasn’t going to let it be yours.” 

I expect him to be pissed with me, or disgusted, or hurt, or… honestly, a whole lot of other things that I might just deserve. I’m a little less prepared for him to look amused and… and  _charmed_.

“I imagine so,” he says patiently. “But I’m more curious as to how you managed it. The encryptions on my comms are top of the line, Juno. You can barely use your own comms to make calls.” 

Oh.

That.

“I… may have called a friend to walk me through it,” I admit. 

“She  _walked you through_  hacking an encrypted comms? Who is this person?”

“An old work buddy of mine.” I don’t miss the look of barely-contained alarm. “She’s not in their digital security department, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’s a secretary, mostly does a lot of filing. Jailbreaking comms is more of a personal hobby for her.”

“That’s quite a hobby.” He looks impressed– and not just at Rita. He’s impressed with me. And maybe it’s because I’m tired, but I start rambling. 

“She’s the one who found out that the Egg of Purus was on the Utgard Express, and I had her look up who would have access to the vault. It’s a limited number– the conductors and engineers and security team live there full-time, and apparently having no family or personal connections is a prerequisite for the job. One of the only people who supposedly knew how to get on the train at all was Brock Engstrom, and according to his personal calendar, he just so happened to be scheduled for a card game with one Duke Rose.” 

The thief’s smile is soft, almost bashful. “I hope you’ll forgive me a moment of sentimentality, Juno.”

In my coat pocket is the passport the thief made me, and on that passport is a name: Dahlia Rose. In the fantasy of that constructed identity, the two of us aren’t just the two of us. We’re a couple. We’re married, ‘till death do us part and all.

A moment of sentimentality. Sure. Let’s call it that.

“By the way,” I say, before I give into the urge to kiss him again. “If we’re going to be working with Engstrom tomorrow, what do you want me to call you? Still Rose? Or do you prefer Rex?”

“Rose around Engstrom, if it’s all the same to you. The fewer names he has to call me, the better.”

I lay down, settling on one of the overstuffed hotel pillows instead of his shoulder. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later, and we’ve got an early morning ahead of us; I should settle back down and let him sleep. But our midnight conversations make me a little too comfortable for my own good. “He was pretty interested in your name.” 

“Yes. But you aren’t,” he murmurs. “I think that was the first time you’ve asked me for any kind of name. Why is that?”

It’s not that I’m not interested. I want to know everything about this man– where he’s from, how he grew up, the whole convoluted path that led him from there to right here, lying in a hotel bed beside a washed-up detective. 

I just know better than to ask. 

“Someone like you has a lot of reasons to keep secrets from someone like me. No point in pushing it.”

This time he’s the one who sits up. “Really, Juno? You think I don’t trust you?”

Of course not. If he trusted me, he wouldn’t have sent me away the way he did. But I flash what I think passes for a smile. “Nobody in Hyperion City trusts a cop.” 

A ridiculous part of me still wishes he could trust me– that he could want me in his life as badly as I want him in mine. But that’s not how this works. That’s not the deal I made, and that’s not something I get to have.

I’m okay with that. I’m okay. I’m okay.

And then he leans over me, so close that I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. His voice is soft, almost inaudible. “Oh, Juno. You only had to ask.” 

I wonder if he can feel my heartbeat, too, because my pulse is racing. He wouldn’t really give that to me, would he? Not  _me_. This is all just a game, isn’t it? Some fantasy that we’re playing at until he dumps me off in the Tau Ceti system and he never has to see me again. I’m the idiot who’s taking this too seriously. I’m the one in over my head.

Not him. It can’t be him. Because if he actually cares half as much as I do– if he actually means half the things he’s saying–

His lips part, and I cover his mouth with my hand like I can trap the words inside. “No. Wait.” 

And he looks confused, almost hurt, almost like he really meant it– which he can’t– he  _can’t_ –

“Not here,” I whisper, because my mind is imploding and the one thing I can still do is bluff. “If Engstrom’s that interested, he might have bugged the room.” 

The look he gives me is so tender that it can’t be real,  _it can’t_ , because people don’t look at me that way unless they’ve got a knife in their hand or their finger on a trigger. 

“Later, then,” he murmurs, and goddammit, he must be good at this, because he sounds like he actually means it.

“After this mess is over,” I add. It’s vague enough to mean anything. What is  _this mess_  even? The heist with Engstrom? The thing with his omnicidal boss? The deal he made with me? Or maybe it’s just me– Saint Juno Steel, the detective who thought he was above all the bullshit before he turned criminal, and god only knows the thief doesn’t need this in his life.

He seems to like that answer, because he smiles and he leans in to kiss me.

That’s when the sirens go off. 

“What the hell?” Instantly we’re both rolling out of the bed and grabbing our clothes. “Is there a fire or something?”

We both know the answer before I finish asking the question. I’m reaching for my blaster and he’s going for his knife. Random fires don’t happen at a resort like the Oasis. 

The sounds of early crisis bleed in through the door. First a dozen doors in the same hall opening one after another, confused voices calling to each other and asking what’s going on. 

While the thief grabs his coat, I put my eye to the little peephole in the door. I get a good view of people creeping out of their rooms, wide-eyed and hesitant and on the verge of panic. 

And then, at the far end of the hall, the elevator doors open. The angle’s all wrong that I can’t see inside, but out steps a little old woman, her expression impatient, like she’s late for a meeting, but otherwise she looks calm– unnaturally calm, considering the spray of blood staining her blouse.

“The hell?” 

“What is it?” The thief’s hand is tight on my shoulder, ready to yank me away from the door at a moment’s notice.

I squint to get a better look as the woman turns her head to peer down one end of the hall and then the other. “It’s just just a little old lady–” 

“Miasma.” The word falls out of the thief’s mouth almost involuntary. In the same instant, the woman’s eyes meet mine through the door. “We need to get out of here.” 

“What?”

“The window. Now.” He’s already across the room, yanking the window open. And I’m about to tell him that that’s crazy, that we’re like a hundred floors up and I don’t do heights and this lady looks like she’d break in half if I pushed her too hard, but then I get a look at the thief’s face. All the warmth and color has drained out of him. He’s pale, his eyes wide. He’s terrified.

And then come the screams.


	8. Chapter 8

For a moment, Juno stands frozen beside the door, like those old stories about deer caught in headlights. Much as I’d like to give him a moment to calm down, we’re out of time. I move to grab his arm, but he turns away, his hand on the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” I dive for him, but I’m too far away to stop him before he throws open the door. 

The world slows down.

The hallway unfolds before me; people are running for their lives, some of them screaming, all of them trying to escape Miasma and her three masked assistants. Each one of the people in masks is armed, each one firing, and by the look of the smoking corpses strewn across the floor, their blasters are set to kill.

“You impossible idiot!” I throw myself at him– maybe I can slam the door before they see him and drag him to the window before they look our way, but it’s too late. 

Miasma’s already turned toward us. She raises a hand to indicate Juno to her assistants.

He’s as good as dead. 

I should run while I still can. 

Instead I reach for his hand. My fingers brush his wrist as he pulls it out of my grasp, his hand still wrapped around his blaster.

He fires: four shots in rapid succession, so fast the gun seems to strobe. 

Each of the masked assistants goes jolts and shudders, almost in unison, before they fall to the floor. Miasma doubles over, cringing in pain, and then she rises again. 

“The hell?” Juno mutters, but he adjusts the charge on his blaster and raises it again. “Not another step, Miasma. The next one’s set to kill.” 

“Juno–” There’s a time and a place for warnings, but this isn’t it. Doesn’t he have any idea how dangerous she is?

She reaches out a hand as if to grab him from all the way out there. It’s all the provocation he needs.

The laser strikes right between her eyes. 

Just like that, she’s gone. The people in this hotel are saved– and so, most likely, is all of Mars. Their hero stands in the doorway, his shoulders squared and his expression grim as he surveys the carnage. 

“Everybody get back to your rooms and lock the doors,” he calls out, his voice loud and sharp and resonating with authority. “Don’t come out until the hotel staff give the all clear.” 

“Listen, cowboy,” says one woman in the kind of power suit only worn by the chronically insecure. “If you think you can just go waving a gun around–”

“I’m with the police,” Juno says. “Right now we don’t know how many people were involved in this attack. Don’t head downstairs at all until we make sure the lobby is safe. You got that?”

She’s tugged back into her room by her anxious wife. The other guests are hurrying to obey– those who aren’t staring in horror at the bodies on the floor. 

Juno glances back at me, his face stony. “Brought any luggage, Rose?” 

“Nothing I don’t have on me.” When he marches across the hall and into the elevator, I stay tight at his side, fighting the urge to loop my hand through his arm; my mind may be racing, but I won’t deny that brazen confidence is a good look for him.

That mask falls away when we reach the lobby, and for good reason: there’s nobody down here to perform for.

The lobby is sprayed with blood and scored with laser burns. Gore paints the wall behind the concierge desk; the remains of a hand are caught in the branches of a potted shrub. It’s the largest piece we find– not because the other remains are particularly finely diced, but because they’re simply gone. 

Juno looks like he’s going to be sick, but he swallows it down. “You saw more of this place than I did. Any idea where they’re keeping the hostages?”

I frown at the carnage. Miasma always did have a clear policy on hostages. “They aren’t. What you’re looking for are bodies.” 

Juno squeezes his eyes shut, simultaneously grieved and devastated and outraged over a room full of people he’s never met.

“Juno–” I reach for his arm, but my fingers barely brush him before he pulls away, that grim determination on his face.

“We need to make sure the first floor’s clear so we can get these people out of here.” 

He crosses the lobby on his own, scanning the area for survivors of any kind, and I follow slowly behind him. I want to comfort him– to do something– but the last time he was so miserable, he didn’t cheer up until I gave him something to do. That’s what he’s doing for himself now; it won’t help anyone for me to interrupt him. 

One side of the lobby opens into a restaurant, and he starts toward it, his blaster raised and ready, visibly straining to catch the slightest sound.

The noise comes from behind us: the faint beep of an elevator and the slide of opening doors.

Juno turns. “Goddammit, I told you people to wait–”

My eyes are still on Juno. I see the precise moment when he sees who stepped into the lobby, the way the blood drains from his face and leaves him ashen and gray.

“No.” It comes out barely a breath. “I killed you. Goddammit,  _I killed you._ ” 

She doesn’t care.

Sensible shoes cross the bloodstained lobby with a slow, measured pace.

“Juno, get behind me,” I mutter, drawing my knife. During the war, there were experiments on technology that could deflect laser fire, but I thought those were all failed. Apparently I was mistaken.

I still remember the major weakness of that technology, though: as much as it could redirect a laser, it was useless against regular steel.

Miasma’s eyes flit to me, and her lips twist into a smile that turns my stomach. She knows that I know. There’s no concern in her cold, flat eyes. The knife will do nothing. 

We need to get out of here. I’ve got four escape routes already planned; if we start running now, we can lose her in the ventilation system. Or we could, if I wasn’t in the company of Juno Steel. 

Because he raises his blaster and he sends out another volley of stunning fire. Miasma shrugs it off as if it’s nothing.

“How the hell are you doing that?” he demands. 

Miasma doesn’t respond to the question; it’s as if she didn’t hear him at all.

“You are going to give me what I want,” she says slowly.

I straighten my spine. “I’m afraid our contract has come to an end, Miasma. I’m not going to give you that bomb.”

“Then I’ll take it myself.” She keeps advancing. “And you’re going to tell me how.” 

My mind is racing. I’ve seen what happened to the other people who stood in her way, before she hired me on to steal the Mask. I know what she’s capable of. And I know she won’t hesitate to turn that on me.

Or Juno. 

Her eyes slide to him, and that sickening twist returns to her lips. Those cold, flat eyes glint with intention, and all of it is focused on him. 

In an instant, I’ve left Juno behind. I’m in Miasma’s space, too fast and too close for her to escape. One hand tangles in her silvery hair for leverage; the other drives my knife across her throat, so deep that the blade should scrape bone. 

It should, but it doesn’t. 

This isn’t the first neck I’ve slit in my years as a thief. I’m all too familiar with the resistance of tendons, the stiffness of cartilage, the crack of the hyoid bone as it hits the steel. None of that is there. Carving through her feels more like cutting into cold butter.

Even my grip on her hair doesn’t feel right. The texture of it is all wrong, and it follows my hand, resistant but stretchy, as if it’s only connected to her skull with chewing gum.

“What the hell are you–”

Her hand wraps around my throat with an iron grip– but that’s impossible. I’ve severed her jugular and her carotid on both sides. Her head should barely be attached to her body. She should be collapsing into a pool of her own blood.

She isn’t even bleeding. 

And then she squeezes. 

I gasp for air, but nothing happens. I can feel my pulse pounding, suddenly constricted by fingers that seem to be made of iron. I flail wildly with the knife, slashing at her arms, her body, her face– anything that will make her let go– but it seems to glide right through her. 

A laser shoots past my face, so hot and so close that I can smell the ozone burning bare millimeters from my nose. Just like before, it hits her right between the eyes. I’m close enough to smell the burnt flesh, to see the crater in her face.

But just like before, there is no blood where there should be blood. No gore where there should be gore. 

The next laser doesn’t hit her face at all– it hits her arm, so intense that it burns cleanly through the appendage. I fall back, gasping for breath that can finally reach my lungs.

She snarls, snatching at me with her remaining arm, but I duck out of the way and stumble back. Her other arm is on the floor, flopping and twisting on the floor like a living thing. 

Another laser flashes past me, and then another, each one leaving a deeper crater in her face, but still she doesn’t fall.

It’s no use. 

There’s no stopping her.

“It’s no use,” I call, grabbing Juno’s hand and pulling him along beside me. “We need to go. Quickly!” 

For a fraction of a second, he stares at Miasma in numb horror, then he allows himself to be dragged behind me. After a few moments of stumbling, he joins me in an outright run, following as I sprint up one hall and down another, diving down garbage chutes and cutting through service walkways. 

“What– what the hell is she?” Juno gasps as I work the cover off a ventilation shaft.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” My industrial-strength box cutter slices through the thin metal, and it takes concentration not to get jagged, red-hot metal on my hands. “But I recommend we save that discussion until we’re clear.” 

“You think she’s following us?”

“Undoubtedly. But we have the advantage of speed on our side, and she doesn’t know where we’re going.” The vent cover falls to the floor with a clatter. “There. Here at last, Juno: the garage.”

I crawl through the door and offer him my hand.

“You sure she’s not going to just go straight to where you parked your car?” he asks as soon as he’s clear of the vent. 

“I’m sure she would. Which is precisely why we won’t be taking  _my_ car. This way, it shouldn’t be much–” 

Blaster fire splits the air, coming from around the corner. I freeze, throwing my arm out to catch Juno before he can go any further. His hand is on his own blaster already.

"Change of plans,” I whisper, barely audible. “We take one of these instead.” 

Juno shakes his head. “If she’s out there–”

I’m about to assure him that that’s impossible. There’s no way Miasma could have known we were heading to this spot. It’s far more likely that other guests of the resort have started attacking each other in the panic; after all, Engstrom isn’t unusual for their clientele. it’s an unfortunate situation, but it isn’t his concern– that’s what the resort security is for, after all.

But before I can condense that point into twelve words or less, it’s refuted by none other than Brock Engstrom.

“What… what the hell are you?” 

I barely have time to grab Juno before he leaps into the fray.

“What are you doing?” he hisses. “We have to do something!”

No, we don’t. Doesn’t he understand that? We’re up against an opponent we don’t understand who has no qualms about killing us. The only thing we have to do is run while we still can.

But how do you explain something like that to someone like Juno Steel?

“Engstrom’s bodyguard will take care of him,” I tell him instead. “We have to–”

I’m interrupted by a sound like a cracking whip, a cry of pain, and a hoarse, terrified cry from Engstrom.

Juno’s eyes meet mine for just a moment. There’s an apology in his gaze before he breaks out of my grip and charges around the corner.

If I had any sense left I would take my own advice, but I sprint after him.

Valencia is on the ground, her fist shoved into a wound on her stomach in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Engstrom is flattened against the trunk of a car, sputtering and struggling under the weight of the creature who has him pinned. He would be dead already, but her attention is turned away from him, drawn to Juno and his barrage of lasers. 

As I watch, she reaches for him and then  _keeps_ reaching, her arm growing long and thin, stretching into a whiplike tendril that slashes through the air for him– and suddenly it’s on the ground, shot off her arm by a precise moment of laser fire. Two more take its place, but they go just like the first. 

She lunges for him, but he shoots her legs out from under her, and she falls to the ground.

Juno’s expression is stony and resolute. There won’t be any talking sense to him. 

While he holds Miasma’s attention, I slip into the shadows, taking cover behind the rows of parked cars until I make my way to Engstrom. He’s still collapsed against the trunk of the car, wheezing, when my hand slides over his mouth.

“Can you walk?” I whisper into his ear. 

He nods, wide-eyed. 

“Then you’re going to help me get your bodyguard into your car.”

For a moment, I doubt he’s going to go along with it– he’s a frightened old man, and it would be so easy for him to run for it on his own. But it seems there’s still one person he feels any affection for.

Miasma is yards away now, her attention entirely diverted by Juno. His clothes are shredded and he’s bleeding badly, but he’s still managing to hold her at bay. In the moments between blows and gunfire, the two of them trade some kind of banter; I can’t follow it, but I can see mounting horror in his eyes.

Meanwhile Engstrom and I grab Valencia and drag her to his car, laying her out across the back seat. It seems a crime to get blood all over the upholstery of the legendary Ruby 7, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the cause. Engstrom squeezes into the back seat beside her.

"Ruby, the first aid kit,” Engstrom commands, and a medical kit emerges from the side compartment with a helpful beep, and he tosses me the keys. “You, get us out of here.” 

Much I bristle at being ordered around like a cut-rate getaway driver, this isn’t the time. My attention is on the cascade of laser fire flashing in the rear view mirror. 

Miasma is closing in as Juno’s aim flags. His eyes are on the Ruby 7, his expression fixed in grim determination. For a moment, Miasma’s attention strays to us, but he forces it back with another volley of laser fire.

It’s the best opening we’re going to get

I pull out of the space, rev the engine, and smash headlong into Miasma. Her amorphous body splatters across the hood of the car, and I slam on the breaks, bare inches from Juno. 

The Ruby 7′s paint job will never be the same, but at that moment I don’t care. The only thing that matters is the relieved slump of Juno’s shoulders as he meets my eyes through the gore-covered windshield.

I throw open the passenger door. “If you’re finished with the heroics, might I interest you in a ride?”

He sways for a moment, and I think he might fall over. But we don’t have time for that. Already Miasma’s body is starting to reconstitute on the concrete.

“Quickly, Juno!” 

Finally he obeys, staggering around the front of the car and sliding into the seat. The instant the door shuts, I introduce the pedal to the floor.

The Ruby 7 slams into Miasma again, but this time it keeps going, so fast it shatters the sound barrier. Globs of Miasma roll off the paint and fall away, scattered by the sheer force of our momentum. It’s only by the grace of the assistive steering that we don’t slam into the walls of the parking garage on our way out, and then we’re in the clear open of the Martian desert. A trail of crimson dust rises in our wake, carrying us endlessly forward.

“Wait,” Juno says. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a spaceport in Olympus Mons.” I check the mirror, just in case we’re being followed. No sign of Miasma yet. “We can drop her off at a clinic, and then–”

“No,” he says. “Somewhere else.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Juno?”

“If that’s where you were planning to go, then she’ll know it. Go somewhere else.” It isn’t just his voice that’s shaking– he’s shivering almost violently. I turn on the seat warmer on his side. “That– the Pill. The Martian Pill. I don’t think she just wanted it for her collection. I think she took it, Rose. Goddammit, I think she took it.” 

“What is he talking about?” Engstrom says from the back of the car.

Juno barely seems to hear him. “You remember what DiMaggio said? It was supposed to help the Ancient Martians read minds, and she–” He swallows. “If you were planning to go to Olympus Mons, then she already knows, and she’ll be going there, too. We need to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“Ancient Martians?” Engstrom starts. “Are you insane?”

His feedback is summarily ignored.

"Ruby, randomize our destination. Keep us away from Olympus Mons.” While the car mulls it over, I glance at Juno out of the corner of my eye. “She can’t read a mind if there’s no mind to read.”


End file.
